Miss Ermengilda herself came hurrying across as soon as she realized she wasn’t going to be sued for damages. She was wearing buckled shoes, white stockings, a dirndl skirt, an embroidered blouse and a mob cap. ‘Oh, dear, are you all right?’
MacGregor said that he was and tried to fend Miss Ermengilda off. In spite of the wholesome impression she gave of lavender bags and three-legged milking stools, her hands seemed to be everywhere.
‘Wouldn’t you care to sit down for just a moment or two? We have a chair over here . . .’
She was too late, of course. The chair in question was already buckling under the seventeen and a quarter stones of solid fat of You-know-who.
‘Oh!’ squeaked Miss Ermengilda who prided herself on being patronized by such a very nice type of clientele.
Dover’s wits were too scattered to allow much in the way of finesse. ‘We’re from the police,’ he said, waving an arm which nearly swept every jar of Old-fashioned Humbugs right off the counter. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Dover and this is Detective Sergeant What’s-his-name.’Strewth, show her your warrant card, laddie, before she starts shouting rape!’
Several of the customers who had been happily ‘just looking’ began to leave.
‘Is there perhaps somewhere we could have a few words in private, madam?’ asked MacGregor, rightly judging that Miss Ermengilda was not best pleased at seeing her living slink out of the door.
Miss Ermengilda gazed round. Having the police on the premises had quite taken her breath away. ‘Well, I suppose we could go . . .’
‘How about over there?’ Dover launched himself off his chair by the counter and made it right across to the other end of the shop in an untidy scramble. As usual his instinct was infallible and he flopped down at one of the little cafe tables with a grunt of pure relief. His feet, after all that walking, were just about killing him. Indeed, had he been a little less squiffy, he would probably have taken his boots off to ease them.
After only a momentary hesitation to reconstitute the display of corn dollies which Dover’s uncertain passage had casually demolished, Miss Ermengilda joined him. MacGregor brought up the rear.
‘Doris!’ Miss Ermengilda summoned a bored-looking teenager who was sketchily arrayed as a Victorian tweenie. ‘Go and serve in the shop until I’m free, dear! And try and push that dried mimosa, there’s a good girl! I can’t face having it hanging around for another year.’ Miss Ermengilda waited until Doris had gone on her way in a flurry of indifference. ‘Now – er – gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
‘How about a pot of tea for two and a plate of cakes?’ asked Dover hopefully.
‘Later, perhaps.’ Miss Ermengilda was nobody’s fool where business was concerned. She turned now to MacGregor, slightly disappointed that so nice looking a young man should have sunk so low.
MacGregor produced the paper bag from his brief-case. It was still being preserved between the two sheets of plastic and Miss Ermengilda regarded it dubiously. ‘Did this paper bag come from your shop, madam?’
‘I imagine so. Why do you want to know?’
‘It’s in connection with some enquiries we’re making,’ said MacGregor and waited patiently while Miss Ermengilda removed the bowl of lump sugar to a neighbouring table where it was out of reach of Dover’s thieving fingers. ‘Can you by any chance remember if you have ever seen this girl before?’
Miss Ermengilda accepted the proffered photograph. ‘Good gracious,’ she said faintly. ‘Is she . . . is she ..?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid she’s dead, madam,’ said MacGregor. ‘It’s her death, of course, which is the subject of our enquiries.’
Miss Ermengilda’s throat had gone quite dry. ‘Was she murdered?’ she asked in a shocked voice.
MacGregor nodded his head.
‘Good gracious!’
‘Do you recall ever having seen her before?’
‘Well, of course I do!’ said Miss Ermengilda rather tartly as she handed the photograph back. ‘It’s Pearl, isn’t it?’
MacGregor whipped notebook and pencil out with a speed of hand which deceived the eye. ‘Pearl?’ he repeated eagerly. ‘Pearl who?’
‘Pearl Wallace, of course. She worked for me until recently. Here in the cafe mostly, but helping out in the shop as and when required. I make a point of that, you know. Flexibility. They must be prepared to do both jobs, otherwise they stand around half the day doing absolutely nothing. These girls will stands of course, until the cows come home.’
But MacGregor was after hard facts, not Miss Ermengilda’s views on the mobility of adolescent female labour. And, all credit to Miss Ermengilda who was a much tougher cookie than she looked, facts were what he got.
Pearl Wallace was an eighteen-year-old who had graced Ermengilda’s Kitchen with her presence for the best part of twelve months.
‘Where did she live?’
‘She was in lodgings. Tubilee Avenue. Number Eleven. Mrs O’Malley.’
‘She didn’t live at home?’
‘No, she’d left home. I presumed that there’d been one of the usual teenage revolts. Pearl wasn’t a very articulate girl, and in any case I make a point of never prying. One’s motives are so liable to be misunderstood.’
‘Do you know if she’d got a boyfriend?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t the least idea. I expect she had. She was quite a pretty girl in a gamin sort of way.’
MacGregor tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil. They’d struck gold here, all right! At last! And it was all thanks to old Dover, would-you-believe! MacGregor spared a glance for the man responsible for this dramatic break-through. There he was – eyes shut, mouth open, chins sunk on his manly bosom – but still dominating the proceedings. MacGregor tore his eyes away from the sickening spectacle and went back to Miss Ermengilda. ‘Did Pearl Wallace have any family?’
‘Oh, I think there were some parents, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Do you know where they live?’
Miss Ermengilda shook her head. ‘I imagine it’s somewhere near Mottrell. That’s where Pearl went to school. Mottrell Comprehensive. I know that because she
